by J. N. Chaney
Music boomed from the dance club across the street. Some were farther away, a celebration launched fireworks. Sirens blared, car horns honked, and people who had arrived after the incident babbled stories about whatever.
It was almost as overwhelming as having nerve-ware problems.
I followed the Reaper but couldn’t keep up.
“You are improving,” X-37 said from what seemed like a million miles away. “Your rate of movement has increased point zero zero three five percent since you left the diner.”
I grunted. “I’m glad you’re back. Sort of.”
“I am no longer detecting interference from the ROS. All of your current problems are caused by your neglected health and malfunctioning equipment,” X-37 said.
“You mean the cybernetic attachments I couldn’t get rid of if I wanted to?” I said as Byron’s van sped out of an alleyway and onto the main road.
19
“We’re fucked, X,” I said.
“Agreed,” the limited AI said too quickly.
The non-Reaper’s getaway vehicle was a copy of the one Michaels and Olathe had used before their untimely deaths. It slowed to a normal speed and merged with traffic.
I ran after it, pushing myself to go faster and fighting through waves of pain and sickness. Glancing back at the diner, I saw more and more cops arriving along with ambulance crews. Before long, half the force would be tied up on the complicated investigation and crowd control.
I wondered if that had been intentional. My rival could've taken Elise himself but had watched and waited as the two locals made a botch of the job. Local law-enforcement and other emergency services were already overloaded, but now they wouldn’t be able to respond to anything else, and I had doubts this clusterfuck was anywhere near complete.
Byron raced through a twelve-lane intersection, electric engine humming, gears shifting aggressively. There was no way I could catch it on foot or even keep it in sight for much longer. My lungs felt like they were on fire and my heart pounded so forcefully, I could feel it. Spots danced in my vision that had nothing to do with malfunctioning nerve-ware.
A trash truck twice the size of the van slammed into it, driving it against a traffic light. Debris flew into the air, the effect compounded by trash spilling from the truck. The sound of the racket was truly amazing, drawing the attention of anyone who hadn't seen it happen.
“All of these vehicle collisions are going to ruin their traffic safety statistics,” X-37 observed.
Laughing hurt. I gasped for air. “True. What a tragedy. Two of their best local assassins also died today. What’s the galaxy coming to?”
Briggs and Crank bailed out of the trash truck, guns blazing as they advanced on the strange Reaper’s van. Briggs and Crank were both precision shooters with a method to their madness. In seconds, the engine block was destroyed, and smoke rose from the cab.
A figure that I assumed to be Byron rolled out of the back, sheathed in KFA, Killing Frenzy Armor. HDK slugs from Briggs and Crank whizzed over his head and punched holes in the van as he ducked down and moved quickly.
The KFA gear looked state-of-the-art despite being designed long before I was sentenced to death row and all of the other Reapers were eliminated. Pressure sensitive spikes and razors flicked in and out of wrist, elbow, and shoulder joints, discouraging anyone from grabbing the wearer.
The sight was intimidating as fuck, even for someone like me. No one in their right—or wrong, for that matter—mind would want to face a metal death demon from hell that couldn’t wait to kill every living thing it could touch. The face mask was a metal skull with glowing eyes and a bright light emitter where a third eye might be. Rumors of this last piece of war-fighting technology implied it could do incredible things, far more than read the environment. It made my single enhanced optic look like a child’s toy.
Briggs and Crank visibly hesitated at the sight of the sleek armor and chain gun the stranger carried. The Union spec ops commandos were elite soldiers who had seen it all and done it twice.
Or so they thought until about two seconds ago. They had come to eliminate a damaged and out-of-date Reaper, and now faced one that had newly constructed, perfectly functioning gear that was state-of-the-art. Their clear advantage in this gun battle had just vanished.
I had trained in the KFA and the MMG, mass murder gun, but never used them. The mask was new, something I’d never actually seen in action.
The MMG had been a running joke in the Reaper Corps mission briefings. One of us would bring up using it, and our handlers would always kill the suggestion. They’d never wanted to use what they called the nuclear option. Simulated terrorist attacks aside, gunning down crowds of people wasn't included in the Reaper SOP.
Slugs ricocheted off the KFA, barely leaving a scratch. The amazing thing about the armor was the extreme efficiency of the design. Lightweight and nearly indestructible, it could be used on long missions. Simple, elegant, and made with the best materials available to the Union, the KFA made the wearer slug-proof for a time—even at close range. There were internal force dampers that reduced the force transfer of bullets that didn’t penetrate.
“Warning, Reaper Cain. The rogue Reaper has two belt-fed MMG auto-cannons,” X-37 said. “You will be pleased to know he can’t operate the ROS and the KFA at the same time.”
“That’s fucking ridiculous. No one needs a two belt MMG,” I said, looking for a hole to crawl into. This shit was about to go south real fast.
No one moved as we regarded each other and the scene took on a surreal edge, calm despite the carnage around us. Then everything happened at once. Briggs, Crank, and the strange Reaper opened fire at the same moment. I moved ninety degrees from the ensuing gun battle to avoid getting shot dead by accident.
HDK rounds peppered the Reaper, the van, and everything near it. Rounds ricocheted off vehicles and buildings, whistling in all directions. Clouds of debris flew into the air, showering the street in shards of glass, pieces of street signs, and dust from the concrete buildings nearby.
At one point, I even saw a pink bobblehead doll through the air, remarkably untouched but still flung sideways by the turbulence of the passing slug.
At the same time, the MMG annihilated the trash truck as Briggs and Crank rushed away from it in search of better cover.
A round took Briggs in the chest, hurling him backward and probably ruining his body armor if it didn’t kill him outright. Seconds later, Crank took another round on his helmet that caused him to do a back flip and land prone, unable or unwilling to move.
Police, likely from the diner a few blocks away, arrived next, adding to the chaos.
The Reaper, Byron Thane, or whoever the fuck was in the KFA, opened fire on the cops. I couldn’t see what happened next because I was too busy taking my own cover, but it didn’t look good for the inadequately armed law enforcement.
The shooting stopped then and I peeked out just in time to see a gas grenade go flying in the air in the direction of the cops.
It exploded, filling the intersection with smoke and tear inducing gas.
I was already running for the van, coughing from the expanding cloud of smoke that helped carry the chemical agents. I’d seen a short window of opportunity. The gunfire stopped after Briggs and Crank went down and wouldn’t resume until more police arrived in a few seconds.
Yanking open the only functioning door of the van, I saw Elise staring back at me. Wide-eyed and tied up, she was speechless for once.
“I won’t let him take you,” I promised, climbing in.
She shook her head violently, squirming against her bonds to warn me my word was about to be tested.
I knew it. Of course I wouldn’t get this lucky.
20
Impossibly strong hands grabbed the back of my coat, yanking me backward. I knew the KFA armor enhanced strength through the efficient use of tension and leverage points in the subnormal layers. It didn’t make a wearer superhuman. That came from the cybe
rnetics limb replacements each of us had volunteered to accept.
I twisted free then dodged sideways, looking for a way to counterattack. The auto-shotguns were clamped next to the ammunition canister on his back to keep his hands free. If I stayed close to him, he probably wouldn't be able to use them on me.
The resurrected version of Byron Thane, if that was who this was, growled at me from inside the distinctive helmet mask that resembled the demon graffiti he used to draw on everything.
Years ago, he had started painting a skull across his visor with one-way paint he could see through. The terrifying visage was well known in the Reaper community. Our helmets had been fully interfaced with hundreds of micro cameras instead of looking through a face-shield.
Unable to continue the tradition with the mask, he’d painted something similar on his chest plate—a serrated ribcage instead of a skull.
Something wasn’t right. My gut told me this had been done specifically for me, because to anyone else, it would just look like scary battle art. Only another Reaper would know the significance of what this was—and I was the last Reaper. Or so I’d thought.
The paint was too fresh and the design a little too crisp. Byron Thane had been a sloppy artist, throwing his creativity on whatever “canvas” he chose with reckless abandon.
“I thought you were dead. How did you get off that rooftop?” I asked.
The three eyes flashed but he didn’t answer and instead tried to grab me, keeping his right hand back so he could draw one of his weapons or deliver a powerful thrust punch.
I parried the strike and moved out of his line of attack. Aiming a roundhouse kick at his knee, I stopped the last second, realizing I would miss because he was already moving in anticipation of the blow.
“Who the hell are you?” I demanded as we circled each other.
His answer was a digitized voice that sounded a lot like the man I remembered. He’d chosen settings to make himself scarier, when I knew the helmet mask was capable of transmitting his voice with crystal clear clarity.
“You know me,” he growled ominously.
I backed up a step to give myself room. If I went much farther, I’d have no chance of reaching the van and trying to save Elise. She was banging around in there, probably trying to wiggle free of her restraints or throw herself bodily out of the cargo door.
The girl didn't know how to quit. Even when she had been alone on a moon-sized prison station surrounded by murderers and rapists, she’d resisted with courage and a powerful rage to rival any soldier.
The Reaper tensed for another attack, but I beat him to it, hitting him with words more powerful than his MMG.
“You shouldn’t have engaged that sniper,” I said.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
I knew he wasn’t the same man I’d trained with, but I also didn’t know the truth of him. I continued the lie, pretending he was the person he claimed to be. “We were a team, but you did your own thing. Got yourself killed,” I said.
“Do I look dead to you?” he blurted, the mask distorting his voice.
“We all knew you were the best marksman in the Corps, but you were standing and firing from the shoulder while the enemy sniper engaged you from a prone position with known range markers,” I elaborated.
Every detail I shared caused another pause. My conclusion about this stranger grew firmer the more we talked. I was also stalling, hoping for an opportunity to win. And that meant grabbing Elise and getting out of here with both of us alive.
I wasn’t sure how to make that happen. The police were surrounding us. Citizens were clearing away from the area. My situation wasn’t exactly improving, but since it couldn’t get any worse, I was keen to keep playing the game.
And I wanted to know who this asshole was. What was his problem? How did he know so much about me?
He rolled his shoulders, sidestepping once again to seek an advantage for his next attack.
I suddenly realized something about his arms.
“I could just blow you in half with the this,” he said, gesturing at the MMG.
“You could,” I said, even more certain of what I had seen. Both of his arms were cybernetic, which explained why he’d been able to yank me out of the van so easily. If he had two arms full of hardware, I was betting he had added infrastructure to his spinal column and core to support the extra weight and torque the Reaper arms would exert.
“Put down your weapons, we have you surrounded,” a voice shouted over the intercom. “This is the Zag City Defense Force. Surrender immediately.”
“Don’t you remember anything from our training?” I asked. “Public shootouts never end well.”
The Reaper who was posing as Byron Thane cursed, then spun away, lunging into the van and hauling Elise out by her hair.
“You there, put the girl down!” the Defense Force commander ordered.
Elise, still bound hand and foot, twisted in his grip, screaming through the gag Olathe was biting into her face.
I rushed the Reaper from the side, hoping to catch him distracted, but he turned and kicked me in the gut, hurling me backward and driving the air from my lungs.
I rolled to a stop and struggled to my feet. “Fuck,” I grunted. “You’re gonna pay for that.”
The stranger laughed, backing away from my pathetic attempts to fight back. He hoisted Elise almost gingerly onto his shoulder, his mouth moving as he whispered something to her.
“Did he just apologize to her?” I asked.
“Yes. He was very polite. Almost chivalrous,” X-37 confirmed.
Briggs and Crank came to their feet, then moved forward as a team. The unit’s commander threatened to deploy more gas and call in air support.
Waves of pain and disorientation crippled me once the stranger Reaper sprinted away from me. The imposter had reactivated the ROS. At this range, my teeth vibrated from the powerful signal it sent out.
Byron Thane ran toward the weakest section of the police containment, breaking through easily. Briggs and Crank altered course, heading straight for me. I turned and surrendered to the Defense Force team.
Looking back at the Union commandoes, I gave Briggs and Crank the finger right before the cops handcuffed me. “Fuck off, Briggs.”
“Don’t antagonize them, sir,” the cop said.
“You’re right,” I said. “They can dish it out but can’t take it.”
21
Briggs stormed forward, assuming his best command presence. “Who’s in charge here?”
I wasn’t in a position to see the conversation, but I heard it despite a trio of cops shoving me into the back of a transport vehicle.
Briggs shouted, “That man’s a Union fugitive. You will surrender him to my custody immediately!”
“After we process him at the booking desk,” a voice drawled. “We have to secure this area first. Stop being a problem or you’ll find yourself in a cell next to him.”
My guards pressed me into a corner, not sure what to do about my cybernetic arm.
Briggs sounded closer to the back door of the police van now, arguing loudly as he made his move. “I’m an officer in the Union military!”
“Then you know it’s a different chain of command, sir!” another officer shouted back. “Stand aside and let us do our job. This is a lawful warning to step back! Do it now!”
The officers restraining me finally decided to cuff me to the wall by my non-augmented wrist and slammed the door in my face. The van pulled away seconds later, nearly throwing me off the narrow plastic bench.
“X, can you hear me?” I asked.
“Barely. The interference is decreasing, but you still need re-calibration of all Reaper systems. The ROS made things worse, I’m afraid. Even if you can permanently disable the device, you’ve sustained unexpected neural damage from this ordeal,” X-37 said.
I nodded, too tired and miserable to form words. My jacket pocket was empty. I’d either lost my cigar or one
of the cops had taken what was left of it.
“I’m about done with this shitty day,” I muttered.
“There will be another tomorrow,” X-37 promised.
“Thanks for that little ray of sunshine, X. Real nice. You should go on the motivational speaking circuit,” I said, studying the small window between the prisoner compartment where I was confined and the driver’s area.
Their radio was cranked up to full volume. The driver and his partner were agitated, constantly diverting their attention between the dispatcher’s voice and the chaos around them.
All I could see were little snapshots of Zag City as we headed for the police station.
“Transport Forty-nine Bravo to Dispatch, request alternate route. This section is cluttered with disabled vehicles. If we continue on Gold Street, we’ll get hung up in the crime scene around Jimmy’s place,” the passenger of the van argued with their dispatcher.
I listened.
“There was a report of shots fired,” the dispatcher said. “Are we getting a duplicate call or is there still fighting out there?”
“It’s all over and done with, dispatch,” the passenger said. “One of the street cops told me he thought someone tried to kill Jimmy.”
The driver interjected, “Make sure they have a secure cell ready at the jail. This prisoner’s trouble.”
“Copy that,” the dispatcher said. “I hope Jimmy is okay. He’s good people. Standby. Got a priority call. Suspect pursuit in the area. There were shots fired. What the hell are you people doing out there?”
“What channel are they operating on?” the passenger asked.
“Tac 2. Tac 1 is being used for the car chase, gun battle/shooting incident,” the dispatcher advised.
“Switch over,” the driver said.
“On it.” The passenger leaned toward the controls and made adjustments.
I twisted against my restraints, gently at first, looking for the breaking point. If they’d put this cuff on my other hand, it would’ve been easy. As it was, they had still grossly underestimated me.
